


Thin Walls

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Adjacent [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Neighbors, thin walls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Awkwardly enough, Mycroft doesn't know how to tell his new neighbour about the exceptionally thin walls in the block of flats. However an opportunity does present itself.





	Thin Walls

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: We live next door, and I can hear you crying through the walls.

Mycroft stared at the ceiling, slow breaths marking the time. It was close to midnight according to the clock on his side table, and he was as far from sleep as it was possible to be. Social situations were not his forte; he was agonisingly aware of his ability to make the wrong choice. This, however, would mark the fifth night in a row his new neighbour had watched the same terrible Hollywood movie. It was evident nobody had told him of the paper thin walls; anything above a moderate speaking voice would be heard during daytime. At night, with the street sounds muted and so few people around, it was even more distinguishable.

Short of knocking on the door, Mycroft could think of no way to alert the man without embarrassing them both. As it was, he was not sure how many more renditions of ‘Love Actually’ he could endure without drastic action.

But it wasn’t just the terrible dialogue and frankly atrocious pop music accompanying it. In the minutes after the movie had ended, Mycroft was certain he could hear weeping. For all his training and experience in diplomacy, there was no tactful way he could determine to broach the subject. He’d never met the man, after all. As it was, there was no need for him to form a plan. The sixth evening was the first night of blessed relief; no movie, no weeping. Mycroft hoped the man had found solace somewhere, for both their sakes.

+++

The following evening he was coming home, paying more attention to the menu for the local Indian restaurant than his surroundings, to be fair. He opened the door to the entrance of his building and stopped short, wondering if he should walk back and order in person. Before the thought was finished something collided with him and he stumbled forward, landing on his hands, skidding on the floorboards.

“Christ, are you okay?”

Mycroft shook himself, taking a mental inventory of his body. “Yes, thank you,” he replied without looking up.

“Here, let me help you,” the voice came again. A hand reached out and Mycroft grasped it, pulling himself up off the floor.

“Thank you,” he said again, this time looking up directly into the brown eyes of his newest neighbour. As he straightened he realised he was a couple of inches taller, but his physical advantage ended there. This man was…breathtaking. Striking grey hair, melting brown eyes in a kind face.

“I’m Greg Lestrade,” the newcomer said, offering his hand. “Sorry I ran into you.”

“Not at all, I believe I stopped quite suddenly,” Mycroft replied. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Well I didn’t spill my takeaway, so no harm done.”

Mycroft nodded. “I was just about to seek a meal myself,” he said. “I can recommend the Indian on Plummer Street.”

“Excellent,” Greg said with smile. “That’s where I’ve just been.” He held up a carrier bag. As Mycroft watched his face, it changed, the expression uncertain. “Look, I’ve ordered far too much. Can never choose at a good Indian. There’s enough here, I mean, if you wanted to join me.”

Mycroft stared. This easy offer of company was beyond him. “That would be very kind,” he managed. “I will just visit my flat to deposit my coat if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’m in 3C,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded awkwardly. “Yes. I am your neighbour in fact…my flat is 3B.”

“Ah, great,” Greg said, his expression faltering a little before the smile resettled. “I’ll see you there, then. Door’ll be open.”

Mycroft nodded, and they stood awkwardly in the lift up to the third floor in silence. Greg stopped at his door, while Mycroft continued on the few paces to his own, closing the door carefully behind him. He hung his coat on its hook and paused, taking a deep breath. What was he doing? This man was far more attractive than he, and the likelihood of him being gay, let alone finding Mycroft attractive was slim, to say the least. Perhaps one evening, to be polite. Two hours at the most, then an early night.

Examining himself in the mirror, Mycroft smoothed his tie, decided to remove his suit jacket and turned to leave once more before he could waste any more time. He strode across to Greg’s door which stood ajar as promised. Shaking his head at the poor security, he cleared his throat loudly as he closed the door, securing the bolt as a force of habit.

“Gregory?” Mycroft called, walking slowly along the hall. It opened up to the left, where his did to the right; clearly they were mirrors of each other. Greg’s bore a distinctly more lived in air than Mycroft, despite his few days here.

“In here,” Greg’s voice came from the kitchen where he was opening containers and finding cutlery.

“Can I do something?” Mycroft asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Nah, just be a minute,” Greg said, flashing a smile over his shoulder.

He’d changed, Mycroft noted, in the few minutes since Mycroft had left him at his door. Had he taken too long? Perhaps his few moments in his own flat had been too long. His train of thought was derailed as Greg leaned down to the bottom of the fridge in search of something, his well-formed arse pointing quite decidedly towards Mycroft. His throat was tight as he tried to swallow.

_Sweet Lord…_

“Here they are,” Greg said, emerging, apparently unaware of his effect on Mycroft. He held out a beer, which Mycroft accepted automatically, copying Greg in twisting off the top.

“Cheers,” Greg said, touching his bottle to Mycroft’s.

“Cheers,” Mycroft replied automatically. Greg was looking at him, and he held the gaze as he sipped at the beer. It must have been something noteworthy, because Greg’s expression changed again – confused, surprised, pleased.

“Help yourself,” Greg said, a small smile on his face as he indicated the food. “Like I said, I tend to go a bit overboard.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He put down his beer and spooned food onto the plate Greg offered, and soon they were settling themselves on the sofa in his sitting room. Mycroft’s sofa sat on the other side of the same wall, though Greg didn’t know it. It helped explain why he’d been so audible, at least.

They spoke little as they ate. Mycroft couldn’t be sure if it was regret in offering the invitation on Greg’s part or simply manners enough not to speak with his mouthful. Either way, some time had passed before they put their plates aside and conversation was upon them, to Mycroft’s awkward realisation.

“Thank you for the meal,” Mycroft said, looking to fill the silence.

“No problem. It lived up to your recommendation,” Greg replied.

“You did make your choice before we spoke, Gregory,” Mycroft told him.

“True, but if it was shit I’d know not to trust your recommendations,” Greg replied with a grin. “And what’s with Gregory?”

“It’s your name,” Mycroft replied, frowning.

“My name is Greg,” he replied. “I was actually christened ‘Greg’ to the dismay of the priest. My grandfather was Gregory, and my mother didn’t want me to be called little Gregory or anything.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft said, ignoring the thrill that came from knowing something so personal about this man he’d barely met.

“No problem,” Greg replied, with that same easy smile. “So, is there anything I should know about, living here?”

His look was so open, Mycroft thought again. And this was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the thin walls, about the fact you could hear everything through them, even the most personal moments they probably would rather keep to themselves.

“The pool, while tempting, is rarely clean enough to risk visiting,” Mycroft told him. Greg screwed up his nose and Mycroft blinked, locking the adorable image away for later examination.

“Yuck. Okay. Anything else?”

“There are a number of opportunistic thieves, though none reside on this floor. I would recommend you have parcels directed to your workplace.”

“Interesting,” Greg said. “And how do you know my colleagues are any more trustworthy?”

“They’re police officers, Greg,” Mycroft said without thinking. Only when Greg raised an eyebrow at him did he realise his mistake. “My apologies,” he murmured again, ducking his head. Surely he will ask me to leave, now, after such a violation of his privacy.

“How the hell did you know that?” Greg asked. His voice was more amused and astounded than angry.

“Your badge lies with your keys beside the door,” Mycroft replied, neglecting to add the myriad of other details that had led him to the same conclusion.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Greg said, accepting the explanation. Just when Mycroft thought he might be able to steer the conversation away from the subject of their living arrangements, Greg spoke again.

“I hope you were going to mention the paper thin walls at some point,” he said, eyes sparkling as he looked again at Mycroft. The blush was hot and fierce and Mycroft knew there was no hiding it.

“I seem to have done nothing but apologise since we met,” he murmured, closing his eyes in shame. A tentative hand on his knee made them snap open again, and he looked across at Greg.

“It’s fine,” he said, withdrawing his hand. Mycroft’s leg was cold even after their brief contact. “As it turns out, 3A – Mr and Mr Turner-Smith – visited me last night. Apparently they can hear my telly right through the walls.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, not wanting to add to Greg’s obvious discomfort.

“Yeah,” Greg replied with a half-smile. “Turns out my embarrassing coping mechanism isn’t as much of a secret as I’d like.”

“I believe the Turner-Smiths are…discreet,” Mycroft said quietly. “As am I.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Thanks.”

There was a silence. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he should speak or not. He shifted his weight, waiting for Greg to speak again.

“I’ll assume you could hear me too,” Greg said carefully.

“I could,” Mycroft replied. He looked over at Greg, surprised to see a level stare meet his. Those brown eyes were calm, looking at him, waiting for him to go on.

“I…wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” Mycroft said. “Given our lack of introduction.”

“Bad break up,” Greg said. “Ages ago, but…” he shrugged.

“I understand,” Mycroft said. “Emotional distress can…linger.”

“He just got married,” Greg whispered. “I…wasn’t expecting it.”

_He._

Mycroft’s heart stuttered into a new rhythm.

_He. He. He._

With courage he didn’t know he possessed, Mycroft reached out, one hand landing feather light on Greg’s knee, ready in an instant to lift if it was unwelcome. He couldn’t bring himself to look over; instead he focussed on the open DVD case resting on Greg’s television. Five deep slow breaths and he was ready to remove his hand, to thank Greg once again and leave, never to meet those eyes again.

Until something brushed over his knuckles. Startled, his finger twitched, eyes pulling automatically over to watch as Greg’s hand slid over his, slow and tentative. It was warm and light, lighter than it should be; Greg was waiting, too, hesitant to settle.

Mycroft’s eye lifted to Greg’s. “Say something,” he said.

“I…don’t know what to say,” Greg replied. “Can I…I mean…”

His eyes, those glorious eyes, lowered to Mycroft’s mouth. His breath caught and Mycroft felt his hand settle, fingers sliding between Mycroft’s, filling the spaces.

Mycroft bit his lip to stop himself reaching forward to kiss Greg. He was astonished to feel Greg’s fingers tighten on his.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, eyes still lowered, watching the white teeth trapping his lip.

Mycroft swallowed, his lip flicking out from his teeth. “Greg,” he breathed, hoping he sounded encouraging.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Greg said, his words quiet but clear. “If that’s…is that…” He didn’t finish his sentence but the meaning was clear.

“Please,” Mycroft said. “Please…”

Greg leaned in, filling Mycroft’s vision, his scent sharp and warm, lips dry. He was still hesitant and careful, and with certainty Mycroft knew this was right. He moved his whole body at once; fingers untangling, hips turning, hands reaching for Greg, lips parting, pressing against Greg’s.

“Greg,” Mycroft breathed between kisses, exalting as Greg moved too, pressed back, kissed more, held close.

And as they kissed, and held, and pressed, Mycroft’s heart beat the rhythm.

_Me. Me. Me._


End file.
